


'Cause

by noodlecatposts



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Best Friends, Drunk!Rhys, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Pining, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: “Sorry to interrupt your dreams of me,” Rhys continued. Feyre could easily imagine his feline smirk behind her closed eyelids. “But, I need a favor.”Prompt Fic for Feysand: Do You Think You Could Love Me?
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 12
Kudos: 186





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eat your heart out with this one, guys. It’s left without resolution, but I’ll aim for a second part sometime. I promise not to leave you hanging.

Feyre was a little surprised to get Rhys’s call at 2AM.

“Feyre, darling.” That feline purr made her forget her irritation at being woken up and smile. The faintest sounds leaked through in the background. A bar, it sounded like a bar.

“Prick,” she purred in return. His answering laugh was freer than Feyre thinks she’d ever heard him. He chuckled; he smirked. Yet, Rhys rarely laughed, so genuine and bright.

“Sorry to interrupt your dreams of me,” Rhys continued. Feyre could easily imagine his feline smirk behind her closed eyelids. “But, I need a favor.”

-

Feyre pulls up to the bar a little while later. She’s a little surprised at the venue he’s chosen for his bender. It’s in the middle of nowhere, as far away from any of the gang’s usual haunts as possible. It doesn’t seem like the place that Rhys would go to with his brothers; had he come here all alone?

The man in question is found at the bar, sipping water with an indignant frown. Those violet eyes of his light up like it’s Christmas when he catches sight of her, and it makes Feyre’s heart flip in her chest to see the joy he feels at the sight of her. Although, she tells herself its mostly the alcohol’s doing.

“Feyre!” he cries. Then Rhys turns to the bartender: an unimpressed, tough sort of woman who looks like she can definitely kick some ass.

“That’s Feyre,” he stage-whispers, and the woman quirks a brow at Feyre, the smallest smile twitching at her lips.

The bartender nods at her best friend, “I take it this one belongs to you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Feyre blushes, and the bartender just smiles. 

Rhys giggles. Feyre didn’t think such a sound could come from him.

“I’m Feyre’s,” he echoes.

Feyre gathers Rhys’s things from the bartender. Wallet? Check. Keys? They’d have to come back for it in the morning but check.

“Rhys, do you have your phone?” Feyre asks.

The man looks horrified, pats his pockets erratically, and sighs when he pulls it out of his coat pocket. “Yes, darling.”

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Feyre tells the bartender, who nods. Tending to drunk fools is half of the job description.

“Good luck,” she tells Rhys as Feyre guides him out of the bar. Rhys just gives her a thumbs up, leaving Feyre with questions for another time.

-

The drive to Rhys’s apartment is filled with giggles. Feyre has to bite her lip from grinning like a fool at her best friend; he’s adorable like this, drunk and silly. It’s a new side to Rhys that she hasn’t seen before.

“Alright,” Feyre says, helping the man out of the car. “Can you get inside, or do you need my help?”

Rhys leans back against the car door with a frown and squinting his eyes. After a long pause, he decides, “I need your help.”

Feyre laughs and wraps her arms around him and makes for the entrance to the building. Rhys leans heavily onto her with one arm thrown over her shoulders, and the other spread out to his side to keep his balance. 

The doorman smiles at the sight of them and welcomes them into the fancy complex, grabbing the elevator for them. He eyes them warily. It’s no secret that Rhys has a few pounds on her.

“Do you need help?” he asks. Feyre shakes her head.

“I’ve got ‘em,” she tells the man.

“Yeah, Feyre’s got me,” Rhys echoes, defensive. After a pause, he giggles again. Feyre has to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

The doorman looks thoughtful, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this drunk.”

“Me either,” Feyre agrees as the doors slide closed, taking them to Rhys’s floor.

-

“I’m very drunk,” Rhys moans, his good mood fading. Feyre fights with his front door while he frowns. She can never find the right key for the door.

“That you are,” Feyre agrees. The door swings open, and Feyre guides her friend inside. “Any particular reason?”

A groan. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Can you make it to your room on your own?” Feyre asks, “I’ll get you some water.”

Rhys wrinkles his brow. “Yes. I got it.”

Feyre runs to the kitchen, seeking out a cup and filling it with water. She really hopes he isn’t sick; Feyre will feel bad but not as bad as Rhys. Her phone chimes and she checks it, finding a message from Mor.

**> >Have you heard from Rhys? He was in a mood, and now he won’t respond. Freaking out!!!!!**

**< <Yes. He called me super drunk. With him now.**

**> >Is he okay???**

A crash from the bedroom makes Feyre forget about the texts. She rushes to the bedroom and finds Rhys in an intense battle with his shirt, arms and head trapped inside the sweater above him. For a moment, her eyes snag on the sight of his toned stomach and the trail of hair there.

A panicked noise escapes Rhys that sounds something like a muffled yelp as he topples to the bed, snapping Feyre from her gawking. She flushes guiltily, not that Rhys can see it.

Feyre’s torn between laughing and rushing to save him. She decides on both, climbing onto the bed after him and freeing Rhys of his sweater.

“I’ve got you,” Feyre tells him as he head pops free of the collar, hair ruffled and crazy, and cheeks flushed from the scuffle with his shirt.

Rhys smiles at the sight of her, accepting the glass of water from Feyre when she offers it. He gulps it down greedily.

“Mor texted,” Feyre tells him, watching as his throat moves. She catches herself and looks back to his face. “She was worried about you.”

“I love Mor,” Rhys says, setting the glass down on the side table.

“Me, too,” Feyre says with a smile.

“You love Cassian, too,” Rhys tells her. The direction of the conversation surprises her, but his voice is so matter-of-fact that she accounts it to the drunkenness. “You said so at the party.”

Cassian’s birthday party. Feyre isn’t sure why it’s relevant, but she agrees with it. “I did say so.”

“And you love Azriel,” Rhys continues. His face looks so boyish in the dim lighting. The pout on his face squeezes Feyre’s heart. “He always makes you smile.”

“He’s very funny,” Feyre adds. The words don’t appear to appease him.

“I bet you even love _Amren,”_ Rhys laments, and Feyre can’t help the little laugh that escapes her. “And she’s- mean.”

“I love all of our friends,” Feyre tells him, giving in to the compulsion to reach out and smooth his wild hair. Rhys leans into the touch with a hum, and his eyes fall closed. Feyre’s heart leaps with fondness.

Then: “Do you think you could love me?”

Feyre gasps, unprepared for the words. She scrambles for an answer, but Rhys is already laying down in his bed, prepared to fall asleep without an answer. She doesn’t think he’s realized he even asked her such a question, doesn’t think he’ll remember either.

Just like she’s sure he won’t remember saying, “ ’Cause I love you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine’s Day Prompt: 22. “You said you loved me.” “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.“   
> Kiss Prompts: 3. A breathy demand: “Kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond. & 32\. A kiss so passionate, so perfect - that after they part, neither person can open their eyes for a few moments afterward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our conclusion to Drunk!Rhys.

Rhys reenters the world of consciousness with a jolt—and a hangover.

“Fucking hell,” he groans into his pillow. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but Rhys knows that the bedroom is flooded with light, can see the ambiance of it through his closed eyelids. He wishes for a quick, painless death; instead, he would rather die than face the daylight.

He lays there for an incalculable amount of time, listening to the drumbeat of his headache. It feels like some is squeezing his face on a two count. Or that might just be his heartbeat. He’s not going to make it. He’s going to be sick.

Rhys lurches out of his bed and makes a mad dash for the bathroom. His face nearly collides with the toilet in his desperate attempt to not be sick all over himself. There’s barely anything in his stomach, water and acid, and that makes it all worse. As the nausea passes, he leans his forehead against the toilet, groaning and then wincing at the sound of his own voice.

“Good, you’re alive,” his cousin purrs, and Rhys groans again. This time because he knows Mor is about to give him absolute hell. “I was just about to come to check on you, Prick.”

“Don’t call me that,” Rhys mutters pathetically. “Only Feyre gets to call me that.”

He can’t see her with his face in his hands, but he can easily imagine the eye roll that earns him. Mor has been teasing him mercilessly, for months, about his blatant crush on their mutual friend. Little does she know that it’s way more than that. Rhys is a fool in love, and Feyre hasn’t even noticed.

“I bet she was calling you all kinds of things when you called her last night—well, this morning,” Mor lilts, and Rhys squints up at her. He left the bathroom dark when he bolted for the toilet, but the light from the bedroom window casts Mor in silhouette, gives her a much too bright blonde halo.

His mind catches up, and Rhys goes cold. “I did what?”

Mor laughs and Rhys grunts.

“You called her at like fucking two in the morning, drunk as a skunk,” his cousin tells him. “You don’t remember any of it?”

“Ugh,” Rhys tries to stand. His legs are shaky, but he thinks he can make it back to his bed if the lights don’t claim his soul. “I… remember… going to the Hewn City.”

He flops face-first into his bed as Morrigan hisses, “You went to that dive bar—wait, you had Feyre drive to that dive bar? Fuck, Rhys. What if one of you got murdered?”

Rhys covers his face with his pillow, mumbles, “Could you turn down the volume of your judgment? Please?”

The rustle of the curtains comes, and the room is cast compassionately into darkness. Rhys thinks he might cry in relief but is afraid doing so will make the headache worse. He feels the bed shift as Mor crawls into it with him, sliding up close to him. He doesn’t need to remove the pillow to know she’s worried about him.

“Rhys,” Mor starts softly. “What’s going on with you?”

Rhys groans in answer. Then: “I have a hangover.”

A snort, “You know that’s not what I was asking.”

Rhys remains silent, his brain whirling for another evasive answer. A lot is going on with Rhys right now. For one, he’s trying to run a nationwide company founded by his terrible father. And sometimes, he sees a group of little girls playing hopscotch and thinks of his sister, and the grief nearly takes him out for the month. 

Other times, Feyre tells him that someone asked her out at work, and Rhys dies inside because his best friend sounds so fucking excited about another man liking her—and Rhys _loves_ her.

Mor must know him better than he thought. She snorts, as if he’s just said the words aloud, and tells him, “Have you thought that maybe it’d be easier to just tell her how you feel? Rather than letting other people ask her out? It’ll certainly do your liver some good.”

Rhys peeks out from around the pillow. “How’d you know?”

Her grin is dangerous. “Because I’m not an idiot, unlike you.”

He glares daggers at his cousin.

“She told me she had a date,” Morrigan says with a nonchalant shrug. Of course, Feyre did. The girls talk about that kind of thing all of the time. “It’s no coincidence that you got all twitchy on the same night and disappeared—or that you got shitfaced at some bar alone.”

Rhys is silent for a long time, and Mor snuggles into the blankets beside him. His eyes start to fall closed in the darkness when he remembers something very, very important.

“The hell?” Mor cries as Rhys jerks upright, a startled sound escaping his lips.

“Morrigan,” his voice is quiet. “I’ve done something really, really stupid.”

*

The wait for Feyre to open her front door is nothing but agony. Rhys’s head is still throbbing, and even the dark tint of his sunglasses can’t protect him from the pain the sun’s glare brings. Although, it’s not the headache he’s apprehensive about.

It’s Feyre.

The sound of the lock sliding from the other side has Rhys’s heart leaping in his chest. He holds his breath and waits. His best friend in the world gives him a shy smile as she opens the door, peering up at Rhys with those big, blue eyes. Fuck, he’s so nervous.

“Hey.” Feyre’s tone tells Rhys that he isn’t the only one.

“I’m an idiot,” he begins with an uncomfortable smile.

Feyre looks surprised by his choice of words, but she smiles as well, holding the door open for him to come inside. “Why are you an idiot?”

Rhys doesn’t miss the careful way she speaks the words. Feyre is testing the waters, trying to see just how much Rhys remembers; she doesn’t know what exactly he’s talking about and doesn’t want to give too much away without the need to do so—is she hoping Rhys doesn’t remember?

He has to swallow away the lump in his throat. “Uh, do I have to pick just one thing?”

Feyre rolls her eyes, but her expression is fond and soft. “Give me the list.”

“Uh, okay,” Rhys’s laugh is nervous. “Well, for one, I got drunk at a bar that could’ve poisoned me—alone.”

Feyre snorts, but she waits for him to continue.

“Two: I woke you up in the middle of the night,” Rhys turns an apologetic frown her way, “and you could’ve gotten hurt. And it was rude.”

“You know I’ll always come to get you, Rhys,” Feyre says with a smile. “A bargain is a bargain.”

Right, the silly promise they made one night to always be there for each other. Not so foolish in reality. Rhys really does love her. He clears his throat, but Feyre decides to take mercy on him.

“And three,” Feyre continues for him. Her eyes are wary, and she wears the faintest flush on her cheeks as she tucks a lock of hair behind one ear. “You said you loved me.”

His heart stills.

“I, uh,” Rhys runs his hand through his still-damp hair. He’d showered and run all the way over here; his car was still parked back at the bar. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

Feyre’s gaze shutters and Rhys realizes his mistake. He curses himself.

“And how did you mean for me to find out?”

“Never, honestly,” Rhys admits, watching as Feyre’s face falls. She’s disappointed by the admission, Rhys realizes. Hope flares inside his chest. “I was too afraid that you’d never talk to me again if you realized what a pining fool I was, how badly I—I loved you.”

“Loved?” Hurt flashes in those eyes, and Feyre’s gaze locks on anything that isn’t him.

Rhys just smiles, “Love. Present tense.”

“Oh,” Feyre breaths. She laughs a little.

“I love you, Feyre,” he tells her, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her face up to look into her eyes. Now that Rhys has started saying it, he can’t seem to stop. “I’ve loved you for a very long time.”

Feyre’s eyes are soft and warm. A hushed command falls from her lips, “Kiss me.”

Rhys is nearly smiling too hard to do so. Regaining some of that lost confidence of his, Rhys asks, “And why would I do that, darling?”

“Because you love me,” Feyre repeats, biting her lip to fight her smile. “And… I love you, too.”

Their lips meet in a crushing kiss. Feyre sighs into the kiss and reaches out for him, wrapping her arms around his middle, and sliding her hands up his back. Rhys whispers her name between kisses, tangling his fingers into her hair. It’s everything Rhys hoped it would be and more.

Eventually, they part. Rhys keeps her close, though, cupping her face with both hands and pressing their foreheads together; Feyre tightens her grip around his torso to hold him close too.

When he opens his eyes, Rhys finds Feyre’s still closed, the smallest of smiles on her face. Before she can open her eyes, though, Rhys is pressing another kiss to her lips, making her giggle.

It turns out that Drunk Rhys knew what he was doing after all, even if he went about it wrong. Not that Rhys is complaining now. No, right now, Rhys is kissing Feyre. She loves him, too.

* ****


End file.
